


Breathe

by Owlet (shinetheway)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universes, First Times, M/M, Other: See Story Notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 00:53:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/792147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinetheway/pseuds/Owlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim hears Blair breathe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> About half of this is six months old, about half is about two hours old. Just a small storysnippet I wrote from a conversation with a friend on how much she loved "Breathe" by Faith Hill. Laura, sorry it took so long, and that it's TS. Feedback of many kinds appreciated; it's been a long time since I did this last.
> 
> Warnings: rampant use of adjectives

## Breathe

by Owlet

Author's webpage: <http://www.squidge.org/~theforest/senfic.html>

Author's disclaimer: not mine. really.

* * *

Breathe  
by Owlet 

Breathing rasped loudly in his ears, quick and shallow and nervous. He could hear it from all the way down the hall, moving this way, and at first it made him flinch--too loud, too intense, too _impossible_ to bear. But it was something familiar, at least, and it drew his ears to something that was safe, something that was unlikely to change, to hurt. 

He listened to it come closer, letting himself focus deeper and deeper on the sound, and felt something deep inside him unwind, relax. It wasn't so bad, he decided finally. He'd heard worse. 

Was he going insane, he wondered. His senses seemed like quicksand now--deceptive, serene surfaces hiding sucking whirlpools, a vortex he feared would swallow him whole. His sight momentarily spiked, and he winced away from the bright fluorescent light, but the breathing filling his ears caught his attention back, and after a moment his eyes readjusted, leaving him blinking and swearing. God, this had to end. Where the hell was the doctor? 

The breathing came to a halt outside his door. He heard the squeak of sneakers, rustle of cloth, an almost inaudible hum of encouraging voice, and the door pushed open. 

That was the first time. 

* * *

The second time was much later, after Blair's place had burned, and he had just carried four boxes and half a futon up three flights of stairs, cursing the broken elevator with every step. Blair had finally waved off his help and was bringing up the last of the boxes himself, while Jim leaned against the table and surveyed his pristine loft, now coated with detritus and cardboard. 

Goddammit. He scowled. He must have been out of his mind--he was almost forty! What did he think he was doing, inviting some twenty-something grad student into his home--he'd outgrown roommates long ago, he wasn't eager to take one on again. Well, he'd done it now--he'd just have to make it plain that Blair wasn't staying, and make sure he started apartment-hunting as soon as he could. Tomorrow. No, today, he corrected, looking at his watch and sighing. 

Suddenly, his hearing twitched, he clutched at the table at a sudden surge of dizziness, and he was hearing Blair breathe downstairs--deep, steady, and almost painfully rhythmic. He was working hard, boxes piled high in soft, muscled arms, pushing himself up the stairs with a determination Jim could almost appreciate. He was a tough kid, he admitted reluctantly, and not afraid to do his share in the partnership. He listened to Blair breathe until his hearing spasmed again somewhere between the second and third floors and he was now listening to the water drip off the faucet in the bathroom. Have to get that fixed, he told himself, and went to help Blair with the door. 

* * *

Morning. Early morning. The sky outside his skylight showed a bruised black, still an hour away from true dawn. Jim lay awake, listened to birds come alive outside his window, and wondered what the hell had gotten him up at this ungodly hour. 

He'd been dreaming, he remembered, trapped in a cave with the water rising and gurgling, trapped in a cave with pools of water, coffins of water that bubbled and rasped, and he was trapped and drowning, although he was breathing hot jungle air, not water. There had been a woman in the dream, a pretty one to boot, and as he was trying to remember why, the sound of the birds flared and then vanished, and he was listening to Blair through the floor. The crackle and chafe of skin on fabric, the muttered sounds of Blair talking in his sleep--something about ants, was all he could pick up, or maybe dance. The wet, labored sound of his breathing,. 

He slid out of bed, pulled on his robe, and padded down the stairs. A thick, hoarse cough broke his tight lock on Blair's hearing between the fourth and eighth stair, but he got it back as soon as he reached the curtain separating Blair's room from the rest of the loft, and pushed it aside. 

The room inside was almost pitch-black. Above the covers, Blair's face was sheened with sweat, reflecting the little light from the open door. As Jim listened, he coughed again, harder. Jim winced at the harsh sound of mucus shifting inside his lungs, and gently pulled the curtain back across. With a final wistful look at his watch--five am, and his day off too--he went to put on some water for tea. 

* * *

Four, in an old factory outside town, still filled with ghostly remains of sawblades and log skeletons, covered in sawdust and thick with the smell of ancient pine sap. Jim was prowling through, eyes intent on the barely-perceptible footsteps in the soupy gloom of the old building. 

A shadow moved, and he shouted "Freeze, Mason! Cascade--" which was as far as he got, because that was when Frankie Mason, nineteen and already two strikes down, opened fire with what sounded like a Colt Python. The heavy bullets chewed up the floor, moving towards him as he threw himself behind a pile of half-rotten boards, wet and slimy with mold. 

A sudden gasp made him freeze behind his feeble cover, and then he was panting hard, feeling his own lungs burn in sympathy and stiffened in horror as he realized what Blair was doing--which direction Blair was running... 

"Jim!" came the yell, and he swore. The sound reverberated through him, the hiss of air moving through wet passages, the thrum of vocal cords vibrating, the blunt force of speech moving past lips and teeth and tongue. 

"Sandburg, get the fuck back!" 

Abruptly his lock on Blair's breathing cut out, and at the same time he heard Mason scuffle on the floor as he turned to face the new player. He reacted without thought, rising smoothly from his awkward crouch, aiming and firing with no conscious volition. 

When he finally stopped shaking, Blair was on the phone, calling it in--his voice steady, no trace of fear or adrenaline. His breathing was calm. Jim focused on it, and felt his legs stop trembling. 

By the time the ambulance arrived, he was able to begin yelling. 

* * *

The sound on the television was tinny, the bass a little too strong, the tenor weak and fluttery. No one else noticed it, but it gave Jim a headache. He looked stonily at the spectacle unfolding--Blair Sandburg, soon-to-be Ph.D., addressing a crowd of journalists and his peers. Looking calm, unruffled--looking like he belonged there, Jim thought with a cramp of something in his stomach. He decided it was anger. He refused to think about it more closely. 

When Sandburg spoke, he sounded nervous, but composed. His hands held the notes steady, he met the eyes of everyone there. Jim clenched his teeth as his partner's breathing suddenly roared in his ears, like a tidal wave--quick, shallow breaths, rigidly controlled. No, he thought fiercely, get out, I don't want this! He tried to ignore it, shove it away, as he watched Blair make his speech. 

The speech went on, and on. The breathing stopped. Started. Stopped again, and when it began it continued slower, calmer, and more raggedly. Broken. When the speech ended, Jim almost missed it. He was still lost in Blair's breath, Blair's voice. Echoes in his ears: "dissertation is a fraud." "no explanation." "apologize." 

Apologize. 

Fraud. 

And now that the words had stopped, the breathing was going slower, slower, back into the soft, quiet registers of normal. Shivering with emotion. Closed. 

Jim turned away. 

* * *

Something was warm on his arm. Warm, and wet, it flowered against his skin in a gentle rhythm that hypnotized him. Sound filled his ears--deep, contented, sated and clear. Breathing slow and steady. 

Quiet. Sleepy. 

Blair. 

Breath on his arm. 

He focused on the breathing, drawing it into himself and making it his own rhythm, and let the sound carrying him back down into sleep, cradled in Blair's arms. 

The End 


End file.
